Cruelty
by lividlillies
Summary: When one of America's "great plans" becomes the straw that breaks that camel's back, Canada decides to get back at him by hooking up with Russia. All's fair in love and war, right?


On Monday the eighteenth of April in the year 2011, between the hours of nine and eleven in the morning on a day that combined the brightness of summer with the chill of spring, numerous individuals in the United Nations Headquarters found themselves hurrying around in preparation for a meeting that would transgress the bounds of common decency.

The nations rushing through the hallways between marble busts and oil paintings were smartly dressed: the women in form fitting pantsuits or pencil skirts, the men in suits of various cuts and colours. They each carried a briefcase varying only in colour and age—some were so old that the leather seemed to crumble just a little more each time it was opened to reveal top secret documents.

Walking through the halls at a more leisurely pace were two men that considered themselves 'nearly brothers'. Nearly, because family doesn't annex family, and this was clearly a mistake one of the men had made in the past. One was walking with a casual confidence and wore a dark, single-breasted suit he had purchased just the week before. The other, his head turned towards the first with the outward appearance of attentiveness, wore a double-breasted suit of a lighter shade of blue.

"It was totally bogus man, it was _clearly_ in. Refs these days..." Alfred shook his head, momentarily frowning. His fingers twitched with the desire to adjust the right leg of his pants. Matthew noted that he hadn't yet had the hems adjusted. "Oh, hey, Arti—"

"Don't call me that," Arthur snapped as he passed them going in the opposite direction. The shirt under his burgundy waistcoat was wrinkled and torn out of place and his jacket was nowhere to be seen. "Matthew, can you have that report ready by tonight?"

Matthew nodded, opened his mouth to ask about the suit jacket, and thought better of it. "Should be ready by seven. Is email fine?"

Instead of coming to a stop or changing directions, Arthur twisted his body at the waist to answer. "Yes, send it to my personal, if you could. I can check it from my phone."

"You're always doing stuff for other people," Alfred said, and the way his voice raised at the end reminded Matthew of a whine. "Oh, and could you hold this?"

Matthew took the offered documents with raised eyebrows.

"Oh, and could you grab me a coffee? St—"

"Starbucks, right?" Matthew rolled his eyes at the predictability. Starbucks was two and a half blocks away, and while that wasn't far by New York City standards, it was warm enough outside that Matthew, who had just finished adjusting to the frigid temperatures of an Ottawan winter, was probably going to sweat. Sitting through a meeting feeling damp was not something he enjoyed all too much, but he knew there was no point in arguing.

Turning on his heel, he walked back the way he came without giving a second thought to the papers in his hands until he had reached the lobby. Sighing, he looked around for someone to bring them back upstairs.

There were aides and assistants that walked with deliberate strides, their faces upturned in pride over being so very vital to the continuation of world peace, and scattered amongst them were various nations and politicians. Despite the unfortunate effect the handing off of important documents would have on their already blossoming egos, Matthew traded them with a young man whose pimples hadn't yet cleared. Embarrassed and overeager, the boy took off at a run.

There was a nice breeze on 45th Street and the trees that lined both sides were preparing for summer, their buds in various stages of growth. A quick glance at his watch told Matthew he didn't have much time, and he quickened his pace without even a cursory glance at the greenery.

##

The man in front of him in the coffee shop was shrugging his broad shoulders in a stretch. He was the type to keep his pale blond hair short, yet messy, and he wasn't wearing a coat. His shoes, black and in the Oxford style, were polished, though the back of the right foot showed wear where it had been pulled off by the left. Clearly jet-lagged, he sighed a yawn and ran a hand through his hair in an attempt to keep himself aware.

Matthew recognized the man immediately, though he didn't greet him. He waited until he had ordered, and then stepped forward to interrupt the transaction.

"I'll pay for his," he said, and the barista ignored Ivan's protests as she listened to Matthew's order.

"You didn't have to do that," Ivan said, narrowing his eyes. It only took a moment for recognition to appear and his expression to smooth back into neutrality.

"It's my treat," Matthew said. Together, they moved to the serving station.

Ivan's mouth quirked into a smile. "Well, if it's you, I don't mind. Williams, right?"

"Matthew Williams," Matthew agreed, moving to the side for the next customer. It was a good day when someone remembered him so quickly.

"Oh, I wonder who this is for?" Ivan asked, looking at the mocha with whipped topping that Matthew had just been given.

Matthew laughed nervously and then, after taking a look at the drink, turned to the man that made it and asked for more chocolate drizzle. He didn't see Ivan biting his bottom lip in amusement.

"I already had coffee today," Matthew explained, taking a sip of his drink before he put a lid on it. "I pre—"

"It's..." Ivan chuckled and pointed at his own nose. "It's on your nose." When Matthew looked at him with his pale eyebrows raising, Ivan elaborated. "The whip cream—no, don't wipe it on the back of your hand! Were you raised in a barn?"

Matthew drew himself up and his mouth twisted into a frown. "Hey! I resemble that comment!"

Ivan laughed and reached into a pocket to pull out an egg-white handkerchief. The hand that wiped Matthew's nose was surprisingly gentle, and it lingered for a moment longer than courtesy might have demanded.

Clearing his throat, Ivan retracted his hand and deftly and quickly folded the handkerchief into a neat square. Holding out his calloused palm, he nodded in a silent invitation for Matthew to take it.

"No, no, I couldn't," Matthew said, his cheeks warming in his embarrassment. It somehow felt like stealing to take something in such a roundabout way.

"No, please, it's my custom not to reuse a handkerchief. If it really bothers you, you can return it at the next meeting." It was now that Ivan's mouth slowly quirked into a small smile. "After all, it won't be a coincidence that we see each other again."

Matthew ducked his head in acknowledgement, and his smile mirrored Ivan's. "That's true," he admitted, taking the handkerchief and stowing it away in his own pocket. "Thank-you."

"It's the least I can do," Ivan said, his smile growing as he saluted Matthew with his cup of coffee. "Shall we go back together?"

##

The meeting began in the way that most do. It was neither incredibly interesting nor irrelevant enough to ignore. Those in attendance varied significantly in age, but all looked to be quite young. The casual observer might be tricked into thinking that they had not lived several centuries. This casual observer, however, would not be taking into account that the Italian attendees were both doodling pictures of such incredible resemblance to the people sitting opposite them that one would be fooled into thinking that they had been traced from a photograph. Neither would he know that the Russian attendee was at that moment finishing a Pushkin sonnet that summarised the last speaker's main points in a most comical and witty way. Occasionally the Russian would chuckle in appreciation of his own work and this would cause those around him to look at him with increasingly perplexed expressions, their delicate Baltic brows furrowing in wordless curiosity.

The next speaker was American and he cleared his throat as he stood, his hand balled into a fist in front of his mouth for dramatic effect. Just as he was doing this, however, the Russian took the opportunity to stretch and yawn. Yawns, as everyone knows, are contagious, and so each and every person around the table yawned after observing their neighbour.

"You did that on purpose!" Alfred accused, flustered by the unexpected wave that had passed over the conference.

Ivan, whose sunken, baggy eyes clearly showed how tired he was, simply stared at Alfred. When it became more obvious that an answer was necessary, he sighed and his shoulders sagged. "I took a red-eye flight from Moscow yesterday and have not slept. I apologise if my yawns do not suit the timing of your theatrics."

Alfred narrowed his eyes and the corner of his lip twitched in annoyance. "It's not theatrics," he muttered, but his voice was too low for Ivan to have heard it. Clearing his throat again (and when he glanced at Ivan to make sure that he didn't start another wave, Ivan held his hands up in a display of innocence), he began.

Matthew was listening with one ear, but he had been briefed on the majority of Alfred's points beforehand by both his boss and by Alfred himself. One point near the end of the presentation, however, had his head shooting up from its resting place on his hand.

"What the hell is this 'Deep Integration' shit?" Matthew asked, and it was with some shock that he realised that he had said the words aloud. He might have framed the question a little more politely, but people were now looking at him with looks that bore equal parts shock and curiosity.

"Um, well..." Alfred's eyes looked side-to-side, perhaps looking for a way out of what would clearly be an embarrassing conversation.

"No, I'll _tell_ you what it is. It's—" Matthew hesitated and coughed. Swallowing, he tried to ignore the people looking at him. He continued in a lower voice: "It's an underhanded way to rob me of my sovereignty and basically _annex _me and I can't believe you were going to call a vote for it!"

"I wasn't going to call a vote for it! I was just... um... you know, giving people a head's up."

Francis chuckled and covered his mouth with his hand. "How _considerate_. Well, we knew it was only a matter of time, did we not, Monsieur Williams?"

"You can _can_ _it_," Matthew shot back, his lip curling in a look that mirrored Francis'. He turned to Arthur for support.

Arthur sat back and crossed one leg over the other. He tilted his head back and observed the 'nearly brothers', his mouth turned down in a subtle frown. "I'm sure it comes as no surprise to you, Mr. Jones, but I'm not exactly enthusiastic about this ridiculous plan. I'm sure you're equally aware, however, that Canada is not my property and I won't be moving any troops against you should you go through with this. _However,_" and it was here that Arthur sat up, unfolding his legs and placing his hands on the table. His eyes narrowed as he stared directly at Alfred, and it was with no small satisfaction that he watched Alfred draw back from him. "I'll be bloody loud in condemning you, and it's not really something you can afford right now. You wait a few years and this manifest destiny thing will all blow over, just like it did the last time."

"I think he simply turned to different directions," Francis said, smiling at Arthur and then turning back to Canada. "And now he's returning to the only direction left to him."

"Are we quite done?" Ivan asked. "I believe Mr Jones has been speaking for fifteen minutes past his turn and this has cost Mr. von Bock fifteen minutes. We can continue this squabble, of course, and have the next presentation run into lunch."

"No!" Elizabeta said, and a brown curl slipped from her bun as she slammed a hand on the table. "Absolutely not! I'm not about to go hungry because you _men_ can't play nice. Why don't we just pull out a ruler and get it done with?"

Alfred blushed, his freckled cheeks lighting up with childish bashfulness. "Nah bro, it's cool. Uh, okay, Estonia, you can, um, yeah." Alfred sat down and swivelled his chair so that his back was to Matthew.

Which, as he seethed and did the same, was just fine to Matthew.

##

The rest of the conference—while informative—was nevertheless more of the same, and Matthew left with a new appreciation of the tasks that awaited him in his quiet office in Ottawa. The same anger that had sparked in his chest on the first day did not fade into an ember, as he had hoped. Instead it had been fanned into a flame that nearly consumed him with its ferocity. Alfred had not made the conference easy for him, either by design or by accident, but the small slights had been built upon a tower of injustice that Matthew could not and—this time—would not overlook.

The plane ride from New York to Ottawa was a short one. It was a much easier flight than the one Ivan faced, and the man had been subsisting on four coffees a day by the time the conference was over. His bosses, Matthew had heard, were very particular in how they wanted their reports and when they wanted them. This didn't leave much time for sleep, but the rest of the nations were used to watching Ivan run himself down to the bones while abroad only to slip into his old indulgences while at home.

Matthew wasn't sure how Ivan spent his flight, but Matthew's was spent brooding over what to do about Alfred and drinking out of tiny overpriced wine bottles. The Deep Integration plot was something he'd have to work on with his boss, and it wasn't like doing anything to Alfred would fix that particular problem. That still left everything else—the constant errands, the dismissive attitude, and his decision to air their dirty laundry at a world meeting (of all places!).

The small annoyances built up and up until finally the plane landed and Matthew's calm state of mind was left somewhere thirty thousand feet above. The half hour drive from the airport to Sussex Drive turned into an hour with traffic, and it did so little to improve his mood that he almost forgot to tip the driver. The delay gave him time to think, time to connect the pieces that he hadn't bothered to connect while breathing recycled air and trying not to feel sorry for himself.

America hated Russia. Their petty arguing hadn't stopped with the Cold War and despite their closer relationship as countries, their human counterparts had all but increased the animosity that they directed at each other.

Matthew would never shy away from being called petty. It was simply the truth. He could handle quite a bit in the way of annoyances, but he was not above getting revenge in the small ways. If he could somehow exploit the poor relationship between Ivan and Alfred, he'd consider that a success, even if it did nothing to make Alfred change his ways.

It was the small things in life, after all.

Which led to his next thought: what if he were to seduce Ivan and rub it in Alfred's face? (At the very least he could finally settle which one actually had the bigger dick and the pissing contests could stop.)

There were the moral deficiencies of the plan to consider. What if Ivan fell for him? What if he was exploiting an emotionally insecure man whose history was riddled with hate and persecution?

Matthew considered that, but he also had to allow that it was a near perfect plan. What other way would say 'fuck you, eh?' louder and clearer and with less political or economical ramifications? It wouldn't even ruin his reputation like a full out 'bitchfest' would. If he told Ivan upfront that it was just about sex he could even avoid the whole ethical problem.

That, of course, raised the question of whether or not Ivan would flaunt a sexual relationship. He didn't seem the type. A _romantic_ relationship, on the other hand, would have a better chance of being paraded around.

Which simply brought Matthew back to his moral dilemma. Did he use—and there was really no other word to describe his contemplated actions but "use"—Ivan to help him piss Alfred off, or did he let Ivan in on the joke? But Alfred was no idiot; he'd know right away that Ivan was faking it just to annoy him.

So the only option was a romantic relationship that Ivan would need to believe was genuine.

Good Lord. Did he really want to go through with this? What if Ivan found out? There were two options there: either Ivan would be angry enough for two Alfreds, or he'd simply accept the treatment as normal, and Matthew wasn't sure if he could handle the guilt of stomping on the feelings of someone like Ivan. There was really only so much Russian history you could read before you wanted to buy the man a beer and pat him on the back.

##

Sleeping hadn't caused a conscience to grow overnight, so he was at the computer with a coffee by his side and his bear sleeping on his feet the next morning.

"How... to... get... a guy," Matthew typed, speaking aloud as he did so. The first result was a list of thirty points, but that was much too long. Matthew needed help, not step-by-step instructions. He might have inherited his romancing skills from Arthur, but he wasn't _completely_ inept.

"Step One, be yourself. Okay, been there, done that. I bought him a coffee right? See Kuma?" Matthew twisted to glance under the desk at the bear that was raising its head in curiosity. "I'm already rocking this plan! My plans are so good I initiate them before I think of them!

"Step Two," Matthew read, biting off a piece of his cinnamon raisin bagel. "Optimise your appearance. Huh." The baggy hooded sweater he was wearing had a hole in the right armpit, and thumb holes in the sleeves that he didn't remember making. It, in combination with his orange boxers, probably did not count as optimised appearance. He'd have to work on that.

After grabbing a pencil out of the mug on his desk, Matthew pulled a pad of paper closer and jotted down a to-do list. _Buy all new underwear, _he wrote, suddenly self-conscious of all the moth holes and loose ends his current wardrobe contained. Badly sized underwear with juvenile designs weren't exactly sexy, and he was going to need as much sex appeal as possible.

"Step Three, 'Listen, listen, listen'." Matthew glanced at the phone. Maybe it was too early for that.

##

Matthew was a patient man, and he enjoyed a slow, smooth transition from one thing to the next, but there were times when expediency was the better option, no matter how uncomfortable. Which was why he quickly threw together plans for a Europe trip that would last just over two weeks and have him touching down in Russia, Estonia, Italy and Belgium. It helped that he knew Ivan was planning a similar trip and they could 'conveniently' bump into each other

His plan went like this: he would touch down in Moscow on Friday the 29th, spend a couple of days there, and then travel to Estonia for a single day in Tallinn on Wednesday. Meanwhile, Ivan would have left for a four day trip to Italy on Wednesday, and Matthew would catch up with him Thursday afternoon. Ivan would leave Italy on either that Saturday or Sunday for Paris, and Matthew would fly out on Monday for Belgium. If he had managed to make an impression on Ivan by that point, Ivan might ask about where he was going next. It was only an hour and a half by train from Brussels to Paris, so Matthew could agree to meet up with him after he had finished his official work. (If not, Matthew would probably head to Amsterdam for some quick fun before flying home.)

The only difficulty with Paris was the fact that Francis could be unbearable, and Ivan was going there on a personal invitation instead of business. It was entirely possible that they would be spending their time romantically and/or sexually and Francis would have every reason to shut Matthew down at every turn. The thought of being shut down while pursuing _Ivan Braginsky_, of all people, was a little disheartening, but it was a risk he'd have to take.

With a completely new set of underwear; a new cologne from Montreal (Matthew had found a pair of men in _Le Village_ who had had fun picking something out for their fashion challenged country); and more work than he thought was possible to get done in two weeks while simultaneously trying to court someone, Matthew arrived at the Ottawa Macdonald-Cartier International Airport with a ticket for a gruelling transatlantic flight. _Thank-you, Air Canada, for providing alcohol._

##

When Matthew asked Ivan out for dinner on his second day in Moscow, he was direct about it. Cool, even. He might normally have tacked on some wishy-washy 'If you want, you know, if it's convenient', but rule sixteen was _don't appear desperate_. Some rules cancelled out rule number one, which was, if you remember, _be yourself_.

When Ivan smiled as he accepted the invitation, Matthew noticed for the first time that it caused dimples to show.

In Matthew's inebriated opinion—and he was quite inebriated by the time dinner ended and they were walking back to his hotel—Ivan's smile was brilliant. Not his usual smile, but this one. It was bright, and honest, and it lit up his eyes and made him seem young like his body, and not old like his soul, and there was a certain simplicity and beauty in the way Ivan smiled at him now, so warm and affectionate after a nice dinner.

"That was fun," Matthew said, and he titled his head up to catch the breeze.

"It was," Ivan agreed.

Matthew fell into step with him and idly thought about taking his hand in his, but caught himself in time to remember that Moscow was a progressive city, but this was still _Russia_. It was too bad that the earlier attitude of the Soviet Union towards homosexuality hadn't been maintained, he mused, and almost lost track of the conversation in doing so.

They didn't reach Matthew's hotel until after he had started complaining about the organisation of the city.

"It's so confusing and twisted! European cities are terrible."

Ivan laughed and dug his elbow into Matthew's side. "And how are we supposed to defend ourselves if the enemy can read a map and understand where he is?"

"Am I an enemy? Are tourists _enemies_?" Matthew gasped, laying a hand on his bosom. Ivan's smile broadened. "You should take notes the next time you're in Vancouver."

"I'll make sure to do that," Ivan agreed. "If I can remember where it is. Its name just doesn't ring a bell like Berlin or—"

Matthew pointed at Ivan. "It is the top—" he swallowed and shook his head to clear the dizziness from it. "It is the top city in the North America to live in. Give or take. You know, publication, date, y'know."

Ivan laughed and looped an arm through Matthew's. "But what about the rain?"

"What about it?" asked Matthew and he adjusted his step to more easily rest his hand on Ivan's arm. "As if you can judge!"

They nearly collapsed into a giggling heap when Ivan dug his elbow into Matthew's side and unbalanced them. After steadying themselves they stood with their arms around each other, heads resting on the other's shoulder, laughing as quietly as they could.

"I think I may have over indulged," Matthew admitted. He wound his hands into the fabric of Ivan's coat for the sake of feeling the smooth leather against the palm of his hands.

"I think that may be true," Ivan said. He turned his head and smiled into the crook between Matthew's ear and neck. The warmth of his breath was a steady beat against Matthew's skin.

"Why didn't you stop me?"

"Restraining myself or others," Ivan pulled away and looked into Matthew's face. "Is not my strong point."

"Is that so?" Matthew asked. His hands trailed up Ivan's arms and shoulders and he tangled them in Ivan's hair. He would later realise with shock and embarrassment that he had completely forgotten _The Rules_. At that moment, with his hands in Ivan's hair and Ivan's hands around his back, and their bodies drawing closer, his thoughts could not have been further from any type of rule, romantic or otherwise. "Then would it be easy to convince you come up to my room with me?"

Ivan's arms slowly tightened around Matthew's back. "I do not believe it would be difficult," he admitted.

Matthew thought Ivan might kiss him in the elevator—they did, after all, have it to themselves—and his face was the appropriate shade of red to showcase his assumption. Much to his chagrin, the bell chimed at the ninth floor before Ivan could do more than casually glance at Matthew. His expression, Matthew thought with some embarrassment, was a just a little too amused to be polite.

"Sorry about the mess," Matthew said as he stepped aside for Ivan. "I, um, like to spread things out when I travel."

"It's not a mess at all," Ivan assured him, taking in the laid out clothes, the papers, and the chart of Cyrillic characters in one quick look. He stepped closer to the chart and was just beginning to point at it when Matthew moved to take it off the wall.

"It's so embarrassing," he admitted. "I hardly use Cyrillic at home. I just, you know, need a refresher when I'm here so I don't end up..."

"Embarrassing yourself?" Ivan asked. The light in his eyes danced.

Matthew ducked his head. "Uh, well..." he grimaced. Why, he wondered, was it so hard for him to be cool? Not that he was pitying himself. He was certain that the rules warned about this type of situation... somewhere. "Actually, y'know, I'm feeling kind of tired now..." Matthew shrugged. "Maybe it's best if we just called it a night."

Ivan blinked and pursed his lips. He looked as if he might consider listening, but chose instead to fall onto the bed and start taking his shoes off.

"Don't think I will, actually. Anything on TV?" Laying down, he stretched out to grab the remote from the pillow and sat up again. He flicked on the television without so much as a glance at Matthew. "Garbage," he said and his eyes flicked quickly to Matthew's. He changed the channel. "Garbage." Click. "Garbage." Switch. "Garbage." He hummed and leaned back on one arm. "Do you have your computer? We should watch a movie."

"I have it," Matthew admitted and he pulled it out of his bag. "But... I, um, it's not like I have movies on it."

Ivan cocked his head to the side.

Matthew's nervous smile faltered.

Ivan raised one eyebrow.

"All right!" The heat in Matthew's face was no longer just because he'd been drinking. "I have hundreds! Just, ugh, don't tell Alfred, all right? He always deletes them."

"What an unreasonable person," Ivan sniffed, wiggling on the bed until his back was against the headboard. He patted the pillow to his right.

"You're telling me," Matthew huffed. He opened his mouth to further explain his annoyance, but abruptly stopped himself. Rule number seventeen was _be trustworthy_ and Matthew was fairly certain that gossiping about your siblings or half-siblings was not especially honest. Actually, that reminded him of the next rule, number eighteen, which was _leave a little mystery _and number twenty,_ hold off on physical intimacy_, both of which he might be in the middle of breaking.

"What should we watch?" Ivan asked when Matthew had settled down and was leaning against the headboard beside him.

After some discussion they settled on a Korean film called _Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter... and Spring_. Matthew started shifting uncomfortably only several minutes into it.

"Are you warm?" he asked, and loosened his tie.

"Oh thank God," Ivan gasped and turned to look at Matthew. "You too?"

"I'm dying," Matthew admitted.

"I'm European," Ivan said.

Matthew set the computer down on the bed. Within seconds, both had stood up and were starting to remove their clothes. Matthew unbuttoned half of his shirt before deciding his socks were worse and pulled them off instead. They settled back into bed in their underwear, though Ivan still wore an A-shirt and Matthew had pulled the blanket over his legs.

Sometime after the middle of the movie, Matthew cleared his throat and stood up.

"W-would you like a glass of water?" he asked, swallowing thickly. Ivan raised his eyebrows at the sudden interruption. "I, it's the wine, you know. Making me feel thirsty and kind of light headed."

Ivan's slow smile betrayed them both. "I'd love some," he said, and tactfully didn't comment on how sad the scene they were watching was. He even managed to hide his chuckle in a cough when Matthew came back from the bathroom with two glasses of water in hand and a box of tissues under one arm.

"You're such a gentleman," Matthew joked when Ivan was stepping into his pants the next morning. "I thought you said you lacked restraint?"

Ivan cinched his belt and took one step into Matthew's personal space. "I'm also a bit of a liar," he said, his voice low before he tilted his head and kissed him.

"Oh." Matthew smiled when they finally broke apart. "I'm not sure how to—"

Ivan pulled his face close and kissed him again. "I've found that it's best not to think too much about relationships or love. I'm not like Germany. I don't analyse the other person and myself and every minute detail. If I like you, then I'll want to touch you. If I respect you, I'll want to touch you when I've earned it. Some things—" Ivan rested his head on Matthew's forehead. "—can be simple like that."

##

The flight to Tallinn was interesting. On the one hand, he mused, it seemed as if his plan might be working. On the other, it appeared to be progressing much too quickly and easily.

He could concede that neither of them were exactly lady killers. Ivan had had spectacularly bad luck in the last couple decades because, geopolitically speaking, he wasn't the best candidate. Likewise, Matthew had been misunderstood to be Alfred a couple times too many to want to try anything other than his current machinations. It was reasonable that they'd connect easily because of that.

But could that mean that they were sensing the desperation off each other? What kind of relationship could be built from that? It certainly wouldn't last long if they were simply looking for someone to satisfy temporary desires.

The entire point was to prove to Alfred that he wasn't as easily controlled as he had supposedly thought. A fling wouldn't have the desired outcome at all.

And anyway, hadn't Ivan said he liked and respected him? Or was that drawing too much from what was just a general statement? And what did he mean by simple? Was he accusing Matthew of over-thinking things? Or was he trying to say that he didn't want anything complicated?

Matthew slumped into his seat and groaned.

He had to admit, however, that the flight to Italy was worse.

Why on earth had he mentioned anything to Eduard?

"Ivan," the Estonian had said. "Is a conqueror. He likes to feel big by sleeping with his neighbours. Has he slept with you yet? No? Then don't expect him to actually feel anything for you. I should warn you that it's not actually _possible_ for him to feel anything. His heart can hardly stay put in his chest."

Hadn't Ivan said himself that he was a liar? So what was he supposed to believe? Who would be playing who?

Matthew scowled into his gin and ginger ale. _Just give me a couple months,_ he prayed. _Just a couple months, some luck, and a camera to record Alfred's face._

_Oh,_ he thought as he started to fall asleep over Poland, _and some protection from Ivan in the end._

##

"What a coincidence!" Ivan laughed into the phone. "Are we doing the same circuit? I'm afraid I've neglected visiting the Italian brothers and Francis for far too long. Ah, well, by European standards at least. You get more leeway being in North America. Sometimes I think it must be nice, if lonely, to have just the one close neighbour."

"It's... interesting," Matthew admitted. "I'll be going to Brussels after this."

"Hm hm hm. Brussels! That's quite close. But, for you, everything must feel close! It's the same to me. When people talk about going to another country so easily I sometimes wonder how they manage it."

"Mm," Matthew agreed. The line went silent and he moved the curtain of his hotel window aside to look out at the plaza below.

In a way, he envied the people passing by under the hot noon sun. They looked happy, and stressed, and lonely, and loved. Some moved quickly in straight lines, zigzagging between the slower pedestrians who were laughing into cell phones. Matthew was occasionally struck by how urgent life must feel to humans.

When he thought Ivan might have hung up the phone, he heard chuckling. "You're so unlike America. There'd never be so much silence, even if he had called for nothing." Matthew watched his reflection blush. He should have thought this call out better. "Are you tired?"

"Well..."

"You must be," Ivan insisted before Matthew could agree or say otherwise. "Between the timezones, travelling, and work. Why don't we—and don't tell either of the Italies, all right?—why don't we go to the beach? I'd never ask them to go, seeing as it's only May and that's—"

"Scandalous?" Matthew asked.

"Exactly!" Matthew could hear his smile. "I think they probably do go in these temperatures, but they like to tease me because I'd go swimming almost year round here! Anyway, I think we're the same that way. I've heard America talking about you swimming in Florida during the winter—"

"It's totally reasonable some months!"

Ivan laughed. "No need to tell me! What do you say? It only takes an hour or so to get to _Ostia Lido_ from here."

##

It was with considerable effort that Matthew smiled at Ivan when they met at the beach. The sun irritated his eyes, the noise of the crowd was more jarring than he had anticipated, and the fatigue that he had waved away on the phone was hitting him at full force. Ivan didn't seem perturbed in the least at Matthew's forced greeting.

They wasted little time setting up their things. Matthew reclined his chair as far as possible and hid behind a pair of sunglasses. Ivan spread out his towel and began reading the book _The Winter Queen_.

They sat in their own worlds for almost half an hour. Matthew was nearly asleep by the time Ivan looked up from his book.

"Did you know Boris Akunin was a Japanese translator?"

"No," Matthew said, and he pulled his towel over his head. "I didn't."

"Did you know Akunin is Japanese for 'villain' or 'scoundrel'? It's a pen name, of course."

Matthew inhaled deeply and refused to respond.

"The Erast Fandorin series is incredibly popular. It's been translated into several languages! I'm reading the English version now to see how it compares."

Matthew made a vague noise of agreement.

"_The Winter Queen_ isn't even a direct translation of the name! It's off to a rough start already."

"Nnh."

Matthew was just beginning to relax again when he heard Ivan turn to him and say his name. He was about to tell him off when he heard:

"Would you like to get gelato with me?"

Matthew sat up so quickly that Ivan flinched and laughed in surprise. "Come along, then. I can bore you with modern Russian literature on the way."

"But I don't like how everyone always dies in the end," Matthew complained as they approached the closest shop. They had discussed the Erast Fandorin series as much as they could before discussing Russian literature more broadly. "I read this one book... I can't remember the Russian name. Just when I thought the hero was safe, he killed himself. For practically no reason!"

Ivan lowered his eyes when he chuckled. "Then you must not have understood what type of man he was at all. There's always a reason. It's not that Russians dislike happy endings, it's simply that we prefer something realistic. If the death is senseless, it's just as bad as a happy ending that isn't deserved."

"What happy ending _isn't _deserved?" Matthew muttered.

"Do evil people deserve happy endings?" Ivan asked as he passed Matthew a cone of hazelnut gelato.

Matthew opened his mouth to reply, but decided against it. They ate for a several minutes before he chose to answer. "Well, maybe not."

Ivan's smile was quick. His eyes narrowed. "And who decides what's evil?"

Matthew was flustered by this. "Well, isn't morality—"

"Subjective?"

Matthew clenched his fists so tightly the cone broke and the gelato squirted out from between his fingers. "I'm going swimming," he said. He threw the broken cone into the garbage and walked towards the beach without another word or glance.

He hardly felt the chill of the water as he walked into it with long strides.

_Why did he invite me out here if he just wanted to provoke met? _Matthew wondered. His chest was heavy with anger and he dove under the water to clear it from his face. _I'm tired. I want to go home. I don't want to do this anymore..._

He floated on his back with his eyes closed until he felt thirsty.

He knew—though where this certainty came from, he didn't know—that he'd keep along his current plan. Even if it didn't work. Even if it _couldn't_ work. He disliked few things more than giving in.

##

They had coffee together in Brussels. Ivan made the trip to apologize for his behaviour at the beach.

"I knew you were tired and irritable," Ivan admitted as he set down his cup. "But I couldn't resist bugging you like that. When you're in public, you're so controlled and polite. I wanted to see what you were like beneath that."

Matthew watched the ripples in his cup as he turned it back and forth between his hands. What was there to say to that? The trip had felt like such a good idea when he'd thought of it, but he forgot how tired and quiet he grew when he travelled.

"When Russians meet people—I apologize, this is a bit of a tangent—we keep an emotional distance from them. We test them out. It makes it easier when we decide that we're not compatible. When I was visiting your country, I noticed that people were very kind and accommodating for the first few meetings, and then either quietly withdrew from the relationship or became more genuine. You're a little like that, except you keep your polite smiling face on for centuries without fail. It makes me wonder how tiring that is."

Matthew was too embarrassed to look up. Was Ivan calling him fake?

"Oh no," Ivan said, leaning on his hand sighing. When Matthew peaked up from behind his bangs, he saw he was smiling. "I seem to have embarrassed you again."

"It's fine," Matthew heard himself say. "It's just that I'm a little frustrated these days."

"Is it all right if I tell you what I think?" Ivan went on without waiting for permission. "I think you're charming. And lonely. You like wide open spaces and the quiet stillness of the woods, and when you're at home making your favourite food without worrying about someone else's tastes, you think you're happy being alone."

Looking up, Matthew was surprised to see how sad Ivan looked. "It tastes really good, right?" He looked down again, and his smile tasted bitter. "Your favourite food."

##

On that June day in Ottawa, Ivan wore jeans, a t-shirt, and the same leather jacket he'd worn in Moscow. After he retrieved his luggage from the carousal, they exchanged greetings, hugged, and abruptly stopped speaking to each other.

Matthew's palms were sweating on the wheel when he drove them back to his house. He had to resist the urge to wipe them off on his pants.

"How are things?" Ivan asked. He tugged at the knee of his pants as they waited for a light to change. He cleared his throat. "With America and that whole..." He grimaced. "What a strange name. It sounds kind of dirty."

The way Matthew's eyes widened and his mouth tugged upwards in a strange not-smile was every bit as comical to him as it was to Ivan, who saw it through the reflection in the rear view mirror.

"I don't even want to know what you think of when you think about deep integration." Matthew deadpanned. Ivan barked out a laugh. "It's been all right."

"That's good. The Canadian dollar is doing well."

"Yeah, we're on par with America right now. It's great for travel, but shit for my exports. On the one hand, I want to go on a shopping spree in one of the low-tax states up south, on the other, I feel bad dumping my money in a different country."

"If I were you, I'd spend my money in front of him just to annoy him."

Matthew laughed. "What about you? I heard the Rouble is showing some improvements."

"Some," Ivan admitted. "We're signing a deal with Italy that should help."

Matthew nodded absently. "Good luck with that."

##

When at last they reached Matthew's house and pulled into the driveway, both men were fully aware of just how hungry they were. It was also just at that moment that Matthew realized he had forgotten to purchase crucial ingredients for the dish he had planned to make. He lowered his head to the steering wheel in a fit of exasperation.

"Is something wrong?" Ivan asked. The hand that had reached for the door handle hesitated.

"I've just forgotten... well, basically everything but the fish. Do you want to take a walk? The store isn't far. I'd drive, but the parking..."

"I wouldn't mind stretching my legs," Ivan admitted with a smile. He and Matthew opened their doors in near unison and went around the car to retrieve his luggage from the trunk.

Once inside, Matthew hesitated in the hallway. "This is my room," he said, and gently kicked the door open. Its slow swing revealed the freshly made bed, the occasional hockey poster, and some over-due library books. "The, uh, the guestroom is done the hall. You can..." Matthew scratched behind his ear. "You can pick."

Ivan shifted from one foot to the other as he considered his options. "It may be more appropriate for me to take the guest bed," he said at last.

The smile that Matthew managed was strained, though it was to his credit that he smiled at all. "That's true, it might be more comfortable." After coming to a quick decision, he passed Ivan his bags. "I'm just going to go write a list. It's the second door on the right."

Matthew had no way of knowing that Ivan collapsed into the bed with a muffled cry over his own stupidity. He was too busy worrying that he had said something wrong in the car and had already sabotaged the trip. Distracted to the point of inaction, he had to jot down the list to the sound of Ivan's footsteps in the hall.

The walk, to Matthew's embarrassment, did nothing to ease their hunger, and walking past the prepared food proved to be torture.

"Want to forget the fish?" he asked. His gaze never left the display of deep fried food. Even the macaroni and cheese, which he tried to avoid, looked appealing.

"Maybe just tonight," Ivan said. He stepped forward to purchase two meals of wedge fries and deep fried chicken. They added extra condiments to their bags and left laughing over good intentions.

As they passed an empty baseball diamond—a rare sight at that time of year, though not unwelcome on that particular evening—both men began to slow down and change course.

"This okay?" Matthew asked, though he sat on the wooden bench before his companion could answer.

Ivan, never one to turn down a meal in fair weather, gracefully took a seat. Past the point of embarrassment, they began pulling out wedges and chicken with their bare hands. They discarded the bones in the shopping bag that had held the boxes and only occasionally bothered to clean their fingers of grease.

"Not exactly the classiest date," Matthew admitted, and he did so with no small amount of embarrassment and a weak kick at the rock just in front of his right foot. He had planned on fresh salmon and wine, and he planned everything so meticulously that he wondered how he now found himself in a park licking grease off his fingers with a man he was trying to seduce.

"No, it isn't," Ivan agreed. He did not need to glance at Matthew to see how the man's shoulders tensed and his head dropped just a fraction, though he did, and the sight made his chest warm. That Matthew was trying to impress him was incredibly endearing. And after visiting Tallinn! How lucky Ivan was that Eduard hadn't filled Matthew's ears with poison.

This is what Matthew would have liked Ivan to be thinking. That he was not far off was simply a happy coincidence.

"But," Ivan said, and he tilted his head to better admire Matthew. "I think I might prefer this."

Matthew grinned and gestured at the empty field with one shining hand. "Well, who else can provide this level of entertainment? No one but Canada!"

Ivan laughed. "This will certainly be hard to top. I'm not sure if it can be done."

"I'm sure someone will try... and fail, of course," Matthew smiled and shrugged. "But what can be done?" With the barest pause, he added: "Do you happen to have any alcohol?"

Ivan—who slowly blinked once and pursed his lips—seemed to be personally offended at the question. His voice lost all the warmth of his earlier joking and was suddenly flat. "Do you think I'm an alcoholic?"

Matthew could not backpedal fast enough. "No," he protested, throwing his hands up. "No, of course not. I just, well—"

"Do you ask this of everyone?"

"And I thought, I mean, well, you know what they say about assuming—"

Ivan covered his mouth before Matthew could finish, and there was no hiding the smile that grew behind the pale hand. "I'm sorry, it's just too fun to tease you! I really am curious if you carry ask everyone that, but I'm not offended." Ivan paused to pull out two miniature wine bottles from under his coat. "Red or white?"

Unable to make up his mind about whether he should protest, continue to feel embarrassed, or ignore the situation altogether, Matthew plucked the bottle of white wine out of Ivan's hand.

"This is illegal, by the way," Matthew said, extremely casually, as if he engaged in public drinking every day of the year and only now remembered that it was not acceptable in his society. He twisted the lid off of the bottle and leaned back.

"How fortunate I'm with you!" Ivan said, and he opened the remaining bottle. "We can corrupt the youth of Canada together, and no one can say otherwise. I have diplomatic immunity, after all, and my blood alcohol level is extremely low for a Russian on vacation!"

Matthew laughed and leaned his head back to admire the sky. The pinks and oranges swam together in the evening sky, and he sighed. It seemed like such a waste to do this for such petty reasons. Under other circumstances, he might enjoy Ivan's company. This felt too much like business to relax completely.

They were not long finishing their meal and drinks, and it took them even less time to decide to purchase more alcohol. They bought a bottle of Absolut between them—the only thing Ivan would concede was decent in the vodka section, and Matthew was not about to argue that Polar Ice was a superior brand, no matter how much he enjoyed it—and returned to the bench.

"I think I'm drunk again," Matthew said. He slid closer to Ivan and turned his head to rest his forehead on Ivan's shoulder. "Why is it so hard?"

"Why is what so hard?" Ivan asked, and he brushed his cheek against Matthew's hair. He slid an arm around Matthew's back and rested his hand on his shoulder.

"Staying sober around you. It shouldn't..." He shook his head. "This is bullshit."

"I'm," Ivan could hardly keep himself from giggling. "I'm not sure I follow."

"It doesn't matter," Matthew said with a small sigh. Whether it was satisfaction, exasperation, or some mixture of the two was hard to determine. He turned his face to look at Ivan, and he had hardly finished his turn before he found himself being kissed.

Even drunk—even remembering the last kiss and date—he was surprised into almost recoiling. He clamped his eyes shut and leaned in, wondering when it woud end. Ivan's lips, Matthew had time to realize, were not as soft as they look. Worried away by teeth and by the dry cold of Moscow's winter, they were rough and thin, but they did deft work. If he had to be kissed—and based on the plan, he most definitely has to be kissed—then it was a relief that he discovered Ivan was at least a good kisser. The hands Ivan tangled in his hair were rough, and he forgot his strength when he dragged his fingers through it, but that was something he enjoyed.

When Ivan pulled away with his hands still in Matthew's hair, Matthew wanted to pull him back. His hate for the kiss, and for Ivan, and for the situation and everything it included, didn't last long at all.

"Do you," and here, Ivan paused and smiled, and it was not the satisfied smile of Moscow or the polite one of New York, but a shy and nervous smile. "Do you want to make this exclusive?"

Matthew wanted to punch the air in triumph, but he kept his glee in check and said, as seriously as possible: "I'm not sure." Ivan's face dropped, then hid away behind a polite smile again. "My brothers really like eating fried chicken with me."

Matthew laughed before Ivan even began to tickle him. Of course, he later said. Of course I want to.

After they returned home, Ivan moved his things into Matthew's room.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

For anyone following still Fortunes: I haven't forgotten about it! I'm still trying to finish it.

For anyone scared of my track record: this story is already complete, but the last two parts aren't edited yet. Timely updates are possible! It's gonna be a thing!

**Some trivia and acknowledgements:**  
The book Matthew mentions where "the hero dies for no reason" is the namesake of this story: Zestokost (ENG: Cruelty) by Pavel Nilin.

I attempted to write the entire story in the style of Boris Akunin (as translated by Andrew Bromfield), whom Ivan mentions at the beach. The first paragraph was inspired by a passage in The Winter Queen. Much love and appreciation to both men.

This story was written for and inspired by my good friend and one of my favourite writers: Sara Generis. Over the year that I wrote this we experienced a lot of ups and downs, but like the writing of this story, our friendship has proved to be ultimately rewarding. It's my hope that this story conveys my appreciation for Famous Last Words, the gift that started everything, and for your continued friendship.

To everyone who continues to read my fanfiction and to anyone discovering me for the first time: thank you!


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